Folly of Flight
by Rockerduck
Summary: When Hakim comes across Crimson Sabatt and her men, a fight to the death is the only way out - or is it? This oneshot takes place at the same time as Loyalty And Legend.


Obligational disclaimer: I do not own. Don't sue, I haz no monies. Kthx.

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><p>Author's Note: Big thanks to ParchmentRose for proofreading and de-engmushing!<p>

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><p>.<p>

This is a slightly updated version of an original oneshot I wrote in 2009. Really,_ The Settlers_? - Oh, absolutely! Seldom has a game inspired me so, and definitely none that's from a fairly recent date. This game is a gem that, sadly, remains unmatched by any of the previous or following games in the _Settlers_ series. I was immediately drawn into this vibrant, colourful world that is simply brimming with detail and the affection of its creators. The beautiful, hand-painted textures, the amazing music, the absurdly funny unique personalities of your knights, the wonderfully supercilious villains_,_ the mix of fantasy and real world references ... it's impossible to play that game without wanting to know more about these characters and their world.  
>I was especially fascinated by the deserts of Janub (no doubt thanks to the amazing music) and the villain's henchman - or henchwoman to be precise - Crimson Sabatt, who to me is definitely the most intriguing character in the game thanks to Susan Tackenberg's voice talent that makes her extra snarky and stand out from your average villain (and believe me when I say the character lacks these qualities in the non-English versions of the game).<br>I had never written fanfic before. Never as much as considered writing fanfic. Yet I knew I wanted to write about these characters, and my imagination wouldn't cease to show me images of desert sword fights. I was practically forced to write this, and it turns out this oneshot remains one of my favourites to this day.  
>It is only thanks to <em>ParchmentRose<em> that I published this, and only thanks to _ParchmentRose_ and _heatherek_ that my passion for _The Settlers_ has not subsided to this day. There are so many stories yet untold.

._  
><em>

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><p>.<p>

"_When two great forces oppose each other,  
>the victory will go to the one that knows how to yield."<em>

_ – Unknown_

_.  
><em>

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><p>.<p>

The merciless blaze of the sun had, with its setting, dimmed to a mixture of reds and yellows as though the sky itself were on fire.

This was the time when desert life once again claimed its place upon the surface, sheltered by what little shadow the evening had to offer. The desert of Janub was by no means devoid of life; its inhabitants relished such tranquil times of subsiding heat.

A true denizen of the desert always knew to wait for a cooler hour to hunt and go in search of much needed water, or when it was time to rest.

.

One such man was the cloaked figure on the horse, and he was proficient enough in these matters to make haste. He had deemed it necessary to travel further than a man should in these perilous lands of sun and sand, but he had little to worry about. Janub was his homeland, and Hakim was no ordinary traveller subject to the dangers this desert held for a less experienced wanderer.

The Knight of Darion was pressed by an urgent matter on behalf of his kingdom, and time was of the essence.

His sturdy bay stallion ran from the trails of dust lingering where his hooves had touched the ground and marking his course across the yellow desert.

The horse and his rider seemed to move amidst a desert storm as they approached their goal: a small settlement had been built around one of Janub's many excavation sites, providing the workers with necessities like food and, more importantly, water.

The site was encircled by nothing but the barren desert sands that made small settlements hard to find for anyone not familiar with nature in these parts.

The rider directed his horse towards the forms in the distance. The buildings were obscured by the same dusty lingering haze that framed him.

The outlines of man-made structures became more visible as Hakim approached.

Two tents, maybe three, and a crude tower made of clay bricks that his people used for the more permanent buildings – of which there were hardly any in these parts of Janub that offered nothing but the relentless glare of the southern sun.

Hakim slowed his horse as he steered him onto the primitive dirt trail leading further towards the excavation site. The tall southerner could easily spot the scaffolding that had been erected in this small remote village. The wind carried the distinct sounds of bustling activity from the workers striving to unearth the desert's secrets.

Suddenly, more voices above the din: voices that did not belong. The words were not Janubian, Hakim realized, but the moment it took for that to dawn on him was a moment too long.

They met him eye to eye, two steel-clad soldiers on the marketplace. More were positioned by the brick walls of the tower, all of them wearing armour of crimson colour.

Hakim did not have another chance to react. A cry of warning from one of the closer soldiers, then multiple blades were drawn in unison and the men charged towards him.

Hakim's horse lunged forward as he clapped his heels to his steed's sides. He was no stranger to such situations, and he knew full well that these men would not pose a threat on desert sands. They would find it near impossible to follow him weighed down by their armour.

Hakim bolted towards them with his own scimitar drawn high above his head. Then he was past them, past the wooden framework and past the stone tower where more soldiers emerged in a stream of steel and red. All on his heels, no doubt. His steed galloped, nostrils wide and ears laid back.

"Seize him!" yelled a voice from behind.

.

Hakim bent low in the saddle with the reins of his mount firmly in hand, daring to turn his head slightly to see behind him. His cloak blew from his back like a banner, thanks to the sharp airflow that the horse created. Between that and his fluttering hood, he could only catch occasional glimpses.

The drumming of hoof-beats rang in his ears, first only his own steed's – then another.

Crimson Sabatt's soldiers had been too slow to follow him, but she was not.

A raven black steed had taken up the chase and, which Hakim found especially unsettling, was catching up by the second. He could make out enough to recognize Sabatt herself on the mount that followed him; her head was bent equally low, allowing her horse to pick up speed rapidly.

It would be a short-lived getaway, Hakim surmised, under these circumstances. Her horse was obviously fresh and well rested, while his would not last much longer at this speed. But all was no lost. Not yet.

.

Without warning, he pulled his horse to the right and off the trail.

Geysers of sand sprayed towards the burning sky as pistoning hooves sunk ankle-deep into desert sand. Sahar surged onwards, nostrils flaring from the strain of running on soft, unstable ground that gave way underneath him.

A quick glance over Hakim's shoulder confirmed that Sabatt was still after him.

The Red Prince's trusted agent no longer bent alongside her horse's neck to catch up with him. Instead, she sat upright in the saddle and expertly shifted her weight on her distressed mount to aid its movement; thus she caught up despite the difficulties their horses were facing.

Of course. Hakim had known her to be persistent.

Seeing how his own mount needed rest, he gently tugged at the reins and once again spun it around. His heels touched Sahar's flanks and the trusty steed plunged towards the enemy knight with the strength of its powerful hindquarters.

Hakim's scimitar slashed out towards the black haired woman. His aim was true – this was not a blow intended to merely injure his opponent.  
>The sound of metal clashing. The deadly strike of his curved blade was intercepted by cool northern steel.<br>Sabatt sneered.

.

Hakim was the first to set foot upon the ground, swiftly followed by the enemy who now opposed him, deadly sword in hand.

Sabatt said nothing. She needed no words: her amber eyes promised deadly revenge for what he had dared to try.

She viciously charged at him, but Hakim parried her attack with a cat's grace, steel clashing once again.

Sparks flew as she lunged forward a second time, only to be met by Hakim's southern sword once more.

His stance was unrelenting, as was his glare, never allowing Sabatt to hit anywhere but his own curved blade.

They went through a series of feint attacks, both irritated by how ineffective they seemed, by how impossible it appeared to strike their opponent.

Eventually, the man from Janub powerfully moved his arm to the right, directing Sabatt's sword away from him.

In one fluent motion, she pulled back, Hakim's weapon still in a downward movement, and aimed for his head.

Her attack speed was incredible – but not unmatched by Hakim, who intercepted the deadly steel just in time. Once again forcing her arm back.

But this time, Sabatt would not have it. She instead jumped back, sand swirling around her boots, as she came to a halt a short distance from the southerner.

They stood facing each other for what seemed far longer than a brief moment. Neither of them flinched, nor eased their grip on the hilts of their weapons.

Hakim looked Crimson Sabatt in the eye, expression betraying hardly any emotion. Hers expressed careful acknowledgement of the situation and a fair portion of guile that matched her reputation.

"Well then, Knight of Fools." Sabatt spoke in a surprisingly mellow voice. Musing, perhaps. Her hair was matted by sweat, her boots were ankle-deep in sand – as were his.

The sun under which they stood remained merciless, despite the sky darkening and announcing the night. A soft wind, still warm, offering no relief from the heat of day, tugged ever so slightly at the southerner's silken hood.

Right now, however, his face was in plain sight and turned towards his opponent.

Hakim Abd al-Sar, Knight of the Darion Empire, looked at the woman only known as Crimson Sabatt along the sharp steel dangerously remaining between them.  
>He had long since mastered his every expression. His grim southern face hardly ever gave away his thoughts, for he took pride in his sharp mind, and was of the firm belief that feelings were only a distraction.<br>One thing he could not conceal, however, were the eyes that every so often revealed what his mask would not.

Silk slid towards the ground as the Knight of Darion casually released the clasps of his cloak so it would not hinder him any further.

Sabatt raised an eyebrow. "I accept your challenge."

.

What had started as a fight to the death continued just as violently, each trying in earnest to subdue their opponent, neither giving the other an opportunity to get past their defence.

The shrill sounds of scraping metal and powerful clashes were framed by the swirling sands that their furious battle provoked.

More sand whirled with each rapid step; every lightning turn created a cascade of sand that sprayed up in the air and rained down again like illusory water.

A step to the side, a sudden upwards thrust, and it was Hakim's turn to move in on her again.

Sabatt parried, skipped out of his reach and returned at just the right moment to launch her own attack, which in turn was thwarted by him.

"Yield, and I promise you that my master, the Red Prince, will grant someone of your most surprising qualities a position of great influence." Sabatt's breathing was heavy, but it apparently did not prevent her from trying her usual scheme.

For the first time, Hakim spoke. "You will find me much harder to impress than Lord Marcus.*"

Their blades crossed for the briefest of moments. Both pulled back at the touch of metal and encircled each other for some time, before engaging in another test of skill.

"Everyone has their price. What is yours?"

Hakim's response consisted of a series of slashes, one of which almost cut Sabatt's arm clean off.

.

Thus it truly began.

A hint of crimson garments, then a flash of blue, followed by the inevitable metal screams of touching swords that now rang across the desert.

It was no longer an ordinary sword fight – sometime, somewhere after the exchange of words the battle had transformed from the sheer will to overpower the rival into the teasing, mocking dance of two equally skilled opponents.

They circled, lashed out and retreated once their blades had met.

Sometimes, one of the knights would block the other's sword for a little longer, then push it aside and try to cross the invisible line that allowed both duellists to keep their distance.

Both were always out of reach, until one of them chose to tempt the other into a careless strike by moving closer, but never yielding, never touching.

They moved like dancers, a constant to and fro of swirling colours, the back and forth of shining steel blurred from sight by another wave of airborne desert sand.

Amidst the dusty clouds they pranced and advanced, turned, feinted, ever so gracefully let their blades do the talking in an eerily well attuned series of motions.

When Hakim lunged out, she expected and awaited him; when Sabatt spun round to smash him to smithereens he easily dodged and, after a moment, was there again to playfully meet her weapon in mid-air and trap it until she let go.

Their feet barely touched the ground in this strangest of sword-dances, and where they did, a mist of desert sand rose to engulf them further.

They would sometimes be close enough to surely, certainly deliver that deadly blow; but such moments passed and were carefully avoided by a quick step to the side or a wild turn.

.

How long the fight continued, they did not know.

It could not have been more than mere minutes until their curious unison was abruptly broken by voices from the distance: the shouts of men accompanied by the clank of heavy armour.

There, coming from the direction of the excavation site, a group of soldiers struggling to reach them as fast as they could – which was not very fast, given the desert sand and their heavy gear.

The five men waded, some stumbled and fell, got up again and continued their desperate advance.

"I believe it is time for me to go," Hakim stated in his soft southern accent that befit these lands so well.

He called for his horse and took the reins. Within a moment he was in the saddle, and not more than two seconds later he was gone in a lingering cloud of dust.

.

Crimson Sabatt stood where he left her, then idly flicked dust-coated hair over her shoulder.

"What is yours?" she pondered. She strode to her horse and sheathed her sword, then turned towards her panting, struggling men.

"Seize him," she said matter-of-factly.

When the night finally came, all that remained was a cloak lying in a heap, already claimed by yellow grains of sand to soon become part of the desert and its many secrets.

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><p>* see <em>The Mathematics of Deceit<em> by ParchmentRose

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><p><em>"Those who dance are considered insane by those who cannot hear the music."<em>

– George Carlin


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